Black Jack Turner

So today my dad turned ninety! That's pretty good going for a man who throws caution to the wind with alarming regularity. My dad has been around since Phar Lap was a foal. And like Phar Lap, he has a big heart and is made of tough stuff. Those of you who've read his memoir will realise it's a miracle he even survived his childhood. Being married for fifty-five years to a wonderful woman, and with an ever expanding family who think the world of him, I'd say, like Phar Lap, he's a winner.

Most of the immediate family went around to his house this morning to help him celebrate and wish him well, but being so close to Christmas, it's not the best time for a big shin dig. Lucky my forward thinking auntie suggested we have a surprise 90th birthday party for him at the Turner family reunion in October so he could truly celebrate in style. Which he did!

Dad put pen to paper (not an easy feat for a man with no education) and wrote a poem for his mother's 100th birthday. I didn't want to wait that long to write one for him, especially considering his fondness for ladders. Happy 90th Birthday, Dad!!

A Rylstone Lad
 
Now that you’re ninety it’s time for a poem,
It’s only right you have one of your own.
Ninety good years is a reason to shout.
It’s not a bad effort for a Rylstone lout.
 
To live a long life is something quite great,
Considering you should have died at eight,
From cow kicks and falls and fooling about,
Head knocks and gunshots and many a clout.
 
Some call you lucky but I think you’re blessed,
The life that you’ve lived has put to the test,
The angels that guard you; they’re kept on their toes.
You’re a menace to safety wherever you go.
 
Your misadventures are now being read
By hundreds of people who all shake their heads,
When they read of your antics, and then wonder how,
A man such as you has survived until now.
 
But here you are, still larger than life,
With a loving family and a wonderful wife.
For a man to reach ninety with no regrets,
Proud of his life, that’s as good as it gets.
 
There have been tough times this is quite true,
You don’t get to ninety without having a few.
But you’re always laughing, a smile on your face,
You come out a winner by God’s loving grace.
 
It’s been a long time since you were a lad,
So much has changed for good and for bad.
But you’ve never altered the person you are,
A fair dinkum fella and the best dad by far.
 
A ratbag, a larrikin, a good Aussie bloke,
Who’s always worked hard and is fond of a joke.
You’ve made it to ninety, and that’s not so bad,
A pretty good innings for a Rylstone lad.            
                                                        
Jacqui Halpin

​

This was the sight that greeted me when I arrived at Dad's place a few months ago. I caught him up on a ladder fixing the guttering on the laundry roof. This might not seem like such a difficult or dangerous job, but for an 89 year old with two unreliable knees it's cause for concern, and heart palpitations. In me. Dad was fine. When he got down safely off the ladder, I breathed a sigh of relief, but that was short-lived.
'Here, give me a hand with this trestle,' he says.
So I help him position it across two ladders, as high as I could reach. 'Dad, this trestle is a bit wobbly,' I say rattling the aluminium plank up and down.
'Oh well, that'll just keep me awake while I'm up there,' he jokes, making no attempt to stabilise it. 
You can't keep a good man down, I suppose.

After taking 12 years to write, edit and publish, the book launch for A Long Way from Misery was more of a celebration than a launch. Nearly 100 people turned out to rejoice with us, buy the book, meet Dad or just say G'day. It was a great day! The biggest hit of the day, apart from Dad, was the Hard Timers Biscuits I'd spent all day Saturday making. They fed everyone at the launch and Dad still had enough left over for smoko. My grandmother baked Hard Timers whenever visitors came to Misery. They were quick to throw together and needed only basic ingredients, but that doesn't diminish the flavour, if the number of people asking for the recipe is anything to go by. I can't take credit for the recipe, my Auntie Pat gave it to me. It's not exactly the same as my grandmother's. She never wrote hers down, but it's close enough that my Uncle Larry recognised the taste after the first bite. 'They're Hard Timers,' he said with delight.
Such a recipe should not go again into hiding. And I'd be in a lot of trouble from all the people I promised it to at the launch if I didn't share it. So here is the recipe for Hard Timer Biscuits. Enjoy, and be thankful for non-stick baking paper and the fact you don't have to stoke up the fire to get the oven hot enough to bake them.

Hard Timers
1/2 cup melted butter or marg
3/4 cup brown sugar
Mix well
1 1/2 teaspoons ginger 
1 1/2 teaspoons cinnamon
1 1/2 cups plain flour
1/2 teaspoon bicarb
Sift together and add to mixture
Roll out thinly on floured board and cut out rounds. Bake in 180c oven for approx 10 mins.

It's with great excitement and a little trepidation that Dad and I have been approving book cover designs for his soon to be published memoir, A Long Way From Misery. There have been plenty of ups and downs, and highs and lows during the making of this book. This is one of the highs. A Long Way From Misery has been quite a journey. Twelve years in May since my dad first said he had a few tapes on which he'd recorded his adventures growing up, (usually at night after a rum and a reminisce). Twelve years since I offered to turn them into a book for him. That's a long time! It's the time it takes a child to go right the way through primary and secondary school. And a schooling it sure has been. I wish I knew then what I know now and maybe this book would have been out while Dad was still young enough and fit enough to be dragged around multiple book launches and signings.  A Long Way From Misery; it took us a long time to get here. But the best thing is in a few weeks time he'll get to hold a copy in his hands, the culmination of years of work, a story of his own and there are none quite like it. It's his story, his life, his book, and at last the end is in sight ... or is it the beginning? 

I made damper for smoko this morning, being Australia Day. It's a bit of a tradition in our house. My Dad used to make damper back in the old days and it wasn't in a fancy electric oven. He would mix up flour and water in an old tin, rake the coals away from the fire and drop the dough in the ashes, then cover it back over with the coals. He'd boil the billy while he waited for the damper to cook, and throw in a handful of tea leaves. The size of the handful depended on the size of the billy. When the damper was cooked, he'd just rake away the coals and dust off the ashes. Then eat the damper, sometimes with cocky's joy (golden syrup), or most times with plum jam. He only used plum jam–it was the cheapest. Dad didn't serve his up on fine china either. He only ever had a battered enamel plate and pannikin. But I bet his tasted better than mine.

What do you do when your knees are giving out and you don't think you'll be able to walk much longer? If it's my Dad, he builds a concrete ramp over the front steps so he can drive his mobility scooter up into the house. "Me knees aren't real good," he says. What he actually means is that the cartilage has completely worn away and it's just bone rubbing on bone, and the only thing that can fix it is two total knee reconstructions. Dad's been resisting surgery for years. "I'm all original parts," he says, "And that's how I'm gonna stay." But he can see the day coming when his 'original parts' won't be able to get him up the front steps. So being a forward thinking type of bloke he decided to be prepared for when that day comes. Using a shovel that's nearly as old as he is, he dug out the ground for a path leading up to the ramp, shovelled a load of gravel and sand off the trailer to use in the concrete, built the frame to box up the ramp, and mixed the concrete by hand with the aid of a little cement mixer he borrowed off a mate. He poured in barrow load after barrow load of concrete and stamped it down with the shovel until the ramp was complete. Not bad for an 87 year old with two dodgy knees.

My Dad had an adventure of a different kind last week and ended up in hospital. A bowel obstruction is serious enough in a younger person but in a man of 87 with a heart condition it's an even bigger worry. Thank God it resolved itself without the need for surgery. Like many events in Dad's life, what could have been a mountain ended up being just a bump in the road. But it got me to thinking about what a loss it will be to the whole of society when all the old-timers like my Dad are gone. The vast wealth of life experiences and information they have will be accessible no more. If modern society took a tumble, and computers, technology and all that jazz became unusable, many of us wouldn't know how to survive. Loads of people can't even remember a phone number they ring every day because they rely on their mobile to store that information. Dad can remember the first  phone number he ever had. We use google to find out every thing from movie times to job vacancies. In my Dad's day, if he wanted information, he'd just go into the nearest pub and ask around. GPS has left us with about as much sense of direction as a lopsided weather vane in a high wind. Whereas my Dad could find his way anywhere with nothing more than a vague idea or a mud map scratched on a coaster by an illiterate drunk (that's what you get for asking around in a pub). So if technology ever crashes, and according to Dad it will—"It can't last" he says, then I hope there are enough of these old fellas left to show us how to live in the real world.

For the past nine years I've been working with my dad on his memoir. This has been an enlightening, inspiring, tiring, and rewarding experience. Not as rewarding as it would be if we could snag the elusive publisher, but rewarding just the same. It's allowed me to spend time with my aging father, that I never would have, had it not been for 'the book'. It surprises me how sharp his memory is (that ability must skip a generation, I fear) and how he can bring to life stories from eighty years ago as though they happened yesterday. Although many of Dad's tales would make a modern day children's services worker have an apoplexy, Dad recalls them with fondness. He has no qualms telling me about the time his mother threw a carving knife at him for giving cheek. And jokes that he was usually fast enough to duck out of the way—but not that time. He still has the scar. But Dad's tale isn't one of abuse and misery. The only misery he knew was the name of the farm he lived on. And he loved the place. He loved his mother, too. She was a caring, loving mother—knife throwing incidents aside. But she was tough. She had to be. Much of her life was spent with no running water or electricity. She delivered ten healthy babies without the aid of a doctor or a hospital. She fed and clothed a brood of children on war rations, and did most of this with no husband around to help her. There are no 'woe is me' stories in my Dad's memoir, simply because Dad considers himself lucky. Lucky to have had the family and the upbringing he did. He tells me he feels sorry for the young ones today because, "I've seen the good days." And if you saw the way his eyes twinkle as he recalls memories from his childhood, you'd believe him.